


Of Bullets and Ghosts

by KathyRoland



Series: The Plunge [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Deathfic, Suicide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-11
Updated: 2011-05-11
Packaged: 2017-10-19 06:52:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,174
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/198131
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/KathyRoland/pseuds/KathyRoland
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Reichenbach happens, there is no happy ending.  This is a companion fic to Of Empty Falls.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Bullets and Ghosts

John sat on the edge of his bed in the hotel room and stared at nothing. Sherlock was… gone.

After three days of searching with local police and Mycroft’s men, they had found his body washed up on the river bank. Mycroft had called his cellphone and informed him that he had formally identified the body and would be flying it home for burial.

Throughout the conversation that left John broken, he couldn’t help but marvel at Mycroft’s endurance. Certainly, there was a layer of grief in his voice, but the man was more solicitous towards John and had seemed very concerned about how John would take the news rather than how Mycroft himself felt at the loss of his brother.

He even paid for the room John was currently staying in and airfare back to London. He brushed John’s attempts at paying for himself aside and informed him that he would take care of everything. In the back of his mind, John wondered if Mycroft was latching on to John as someone to worry over in order to distance himself from Sherlock’s death.

John’s breath caught in his throat and he forced himself to exhale gently. Sherlock’s death had opened a gaping wound in John’s psych. There was an emptiness to him now, a place that simply wasn’t filled anymore.

He knew he should be trying to sleep, as he hadn’t slept for more than a few hours in the last five days- first there was the epic case with Sherlock that left no time for rest, and then Sherlock disappeared over the cliff and John pushed his body harder than he had ever pushed it in an effort to keep searching for Sherlock. And he had never given up hope until Mycroft had called him. Foolishly, he kept expecting Sherlock to sidle up to him in one of his foolish disguises and reveal that it had all been a hoax.

John sat through the night staring into nothing. When morning came, he packed up his bag and got into the car to go to the airport.

 

The burial was just as Sherlock would have wanted it, John later thought. There was no ceremony, no eulogy, no pastor to preach platitudes. Just three people showed up to watch the coffin be lowered into the ground. Mycroft, standing unyielding in the rain, looking as untouchable as always. Lestrade off to the side, hands in his pockets, dark circles under his eyes and the smell of cigarette smoke on his clothing. And John. John whose hand trembled once more and leg sent out twinges. Who hadn’t had more than 90 minutes of continuous sleep or more than a few sparing bites to eat in the last week.

When all was done, Mycroft pulled John aside and informed him that Sherlock had left most of his money to John. It seemed that he would be more than able to live comfortably for the rest of his life without needing to work another day. He also pushed a business card into John’s hand with the firm request to call him if he ever ran into any trouble. John nodded, not really believing the conversation wasn’t a part of his imagination and haltingly tried to give his condolences for Mycroft’s loss. At that, Mycroft’s face finally showed an expression of regret and he nodded gravely at John.

“Thank you, Dr. Watson.” He paused before leaving. “If there’s anything that I can do, please let me know.”

John felt slightly foolish, knowing it was he was supposed to be saying those words to Mycroft, not the other way around.

After Mycroft left, Lestrade and John walked down to the pub and sat in silence looking at their untouched pints. Neither one of them said anything for the hour that they sat there. Neither one of them needed to.

With unspoken mutual consent, the two of them stood up and left the pub, each going their own way. John to his empty flat, and Lestrade to his home. John would stay awake for yet another night staring at the ceiling and Lestrade would get called out another one of London’s endless crime scenes before midnight.

 

Life went by. In the beginning, people would stop by to look in on John and make certain he was “holding up alright.” John would nod and offer them tea. They would talk briefly about their memories of Sherlock, then awkward silence would set in. Finally, the other person would claim an engagement they needed to go to and John would walk them out to the front door.

He would then tidy up the non-existent mess and sit on the couch staring mindlessly at the television.

Mycroft came by surprisingly often, always seeming worried about John. He would inquire about his health and nod politely at John’s transparent lies.

Mycroft would eventually leave, a slight frown on his face as he appraised John. Every time, he would remind John to call if there was ever any trouble.

As the weeks passed, the visitors dwindled and John was left to walk around the haunted flat as memories of Sherlock passed by.

There was no more blog entries, no more cases, no more locum work at the surgery for John. Just days of sitting with a jagged hole in his soul. Every day, his mind would go to the gun he kept in a drawer upstairs. Each time he thought of it, he forced himself away knowing the scorn Sherlock would have felt for such an action. Once, he had stood up and taken the steps up to his room and opened the drawer. He stopped himself. His phone had started ringing downstairs, serving as a distraction. John had resolutely closed the drawer and gone to answer the phone. It had been Mycroft inquiring as always to John’s health.

Mycroft continued to visit. He would hint at job opportunities at Bart’s, he could teach if he didn’t want to treat people anymore. Or there was a job opening at the veteran’s center- seemed perfectly suited for John. John would smile at Mycroft and thank him, but demur.

Eventually, Mycroft would leave, always repeating that John could call at any time.

Then one day, John realized that four months had passed. Four months of John doing nothing but dwelling on the loss of Sherlock. He had become what he had always feared: a dried up, useless, broken man. There were no more ties holding him to life, just a ghost’s presence, a ghost’s disapproval.

Resolutely, he stood up and walked toward the stairs. His hand no longer shook, and his leg didn’t hurt. He felt peace for the first time in a long time. Calmly, he opened the drawer and pulled out the gun. He disengaged the safety. He heard the phone start ringing downstairs. He ignored it. As he raised the gun, he wondered if Sherlock would be waiting for him, if he would be impatient as always and eager to go on.

He pulled the trigger.


End file.
